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It was one stupid weekend.
He wouldn’t talk to me on the morning I left, because he
suddenly wanted to go, but now it was too late. Bye! I yelled to his torso
through the open car window.
I wandered through the hippies, reacquainting myself with
this alternate reality. Barefooted, bare-bodied youth.

The first night was uneventful, so we drank and smoked and put up a tarp,
ruining my car in the process. It was no Frog Fest but it was fun and it was
dry. Our more prepared neighbor kept asking if we wanted more rope, which we
didn’t.
The following morning we wandered through Fort Mcleod, and
returned to the festival to discover Nanton friends drinking Pilsners and
having songs dedicated to them. They had artist bracelets on because they were
Lance’s woofers. We watched Tin & The Toad.

DN played after them. I swooned at his way with words. I’d never seen anything
like him, except for that one time.
I was introduced to Kris, as Georgia was handing him beers
from our cooler. “The art…